Utopia
by Gray Doll
Summary: 2001: Four years after the War, second-in-command Auror Harry Potter arrives at the isolated and derelict Lestrange Manor. A single timeworn diary is the only thing he finds intact in there, but perhaps picking it up and reading it was not such a good idea after all...
1. Grant my last request

**Utopia**

**Summary**: Four years after the War, second-in-command Auror Harry Potter arrives at the isolated and derelict Lestrange Manor. A single timeworn diary is the only thing he finds intact in there, but perhaps picking it up and reading it was not such a good idea after all...

**Rating**: T for now, but it will probably go up to M

**Warnings**: May include controversial topics, such as discuss of God and religion, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, sadistic-masochistic behavior, adultery, incest, torture/murder, physical abuse, alcohol consumption-substance use. Also there will be violence and sexual scenes (either mentioned, referred to or described)

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, the brilliant J. K. Rowling does.

**Author's Notes**: Thank you for chosing this to read! I just could not get this out of my mind. It would not go away. And I just had to write it down before I completely forgot it… So this popped out. I really hope you'll enjoy it…

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Chapter 1

The Request

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'_Oh I've found, that I'm bound, to wander down that one way road, and I realize all about your lies, but I am no wiser than the fool I was before_' ~Paolo Nutini, "Last Request"

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There was an awful lot of paperwork Harry Potter had to overhaul for the day.

For one, Harry Potter was never the type of person who enjoys spending long hours among piles of documents and notes, rummaging through papers and, generally, being stagnant and having to _read and write_. Not that he was not particularly fond of learning, as long as learning itself did not comprise staying in and actually _studying_. He would rather learn the tried and true way of going out and experiencing than the old-fashioned reading and doing work.

That, among others, was the reason why he had always wanted to become an Auror. Well, 'always' was only relevant –given that he was not aware of his true identity until the age of eleven and the existence of the Aurors and Hit Wizards Departments until much later. But ever since Harry had learned about the perpetual fight between Dark wizards and Ministry Aurors, he had wanted to join the side of the brave and fearless supporters of Light and the ever-going battle against the people who opposed the rights of the citizens to a properly functioned and healthy, convenient and generally happy life.

It was not to say that it was not personal, though. Harry Potter had gone through a lot in his life because of Dark wizards and their unorthodox manners. He was not a person to complain about his situation or blame events for his misfortune, but he could not help feeling bitter when musing on how he had never exactly enjoyed the childhood every other person seemed to have had –and that because of a certain, very, very Dark wizard. And of course, his crazed followers, and the war -or rather, _wars_- they had caused.

No, Harry Potter had never exactly been your typical care-free stripling. In all truth, he had been lucky enough to occasionally experience demonstrations of love and affection, but even after so many years, he could not help but resentfully think of how he had never known a real family and happy home of his own. He was not bitter now, not in any way, but sometimes he would catch himself thinking that, if given the chance, he would probably go back in time and change a great lot of things from his past.

One of them being, of course, the constant presence of a certain Dark Lord in his grueling life.

His life had already been destined by _him_, before he was even born, and all that because of a prophecy that, if not taken seriously, could have meant absolutely _nothing_. Harry Potter could have had a family, he could have been raised normally had it not been for a damned prophecy and a damned Dark Lord. But things happen, and he could not change them, so he had simply accepted his life –though not very willingly.

At times, he resented the fact that everyone seemed to have a _normal_ life but him. Everything about him seemed just so… out of place, when observing everyone else. He was sure he was the only one who could not go to bed and think of the girl he liked, but instead his dreams were almost always about a monstrous half-snake half-man who had ruined his past life and was determined to do the same for his current one as well –and, at times, seemed to be doing a pretty good job at that. He was sure he was the only one who could not enjoy a walk in the streets without constantly fearing some Death Eater or crazed Ministry official would emerge from the shadows and either attack him or corner him and shower him with questions.

He was sure he was the only teenager who had to worry about saving the Wizarding World and fighting against Dark forces instead of straining his neck to hear his best buddy rambling about which girl winked at him while walking down the corridor to Transfiguration class.

He was just glad all that insanity was over now. The price for it had been _much_ too high, but at least it was over, and at times he could say that finally, _finally_ he was enjoying a normal life. Well, as normal as the life of the second-in-command Ministry Auror could be. Being an Auror meant that you could never be fully relaxed, as you could get a call from work at any time of the day. Thankfully, at these times work included the regular Ministry shift, but rush and danger were of course always present in the lives of the Aurors.

Harry had been thoroughly excited to become an Auror having that in mind. He had instantly rejected any profession that would entail sitting long hours behind a desk and going through endless paperwork, and becoming an official fighter against Dark forces was exceptionally appealing to a young man so troubled and tortured as him. Current Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt had no qualms and of course granted him the position, especially after his triumph at the Battle of Hogwarts. He was celebrated as a national hero after that, and it would only be absurd if he was not given the position of a high ranking Hit wizard…

But it was days like that Harry Potter hated.

His secretary had dumped an alarmingly large pile of dossiers and folders earlier this morning on his desk, and Harry had eyed them warily, casting the woman a questioning glance.

"The cases of the wanted criminals across Britain and the reports from the French Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she had said tersely, although unable to hide a small smirk at his obvious discomfort.

"Shouldn't that be the responsibility of the Department of International Magic Cooperation?" he had asked, hoping that perhaps he could pass the pesky paperwork to the officers at DIMC.

"It's from the French Hit Wizards regarding the case of that serial killer from Paris, and the recent turbulences in Nice. They were sent to Magical Law Enforcement, not International Cooperation, so I'm positive they are for you and not Mr. Waire."

Scowling, Harry had filed the dossiers away in some drawer and had gone through already solved cases of wanted men across Britain, something he had already regret. The paperwork he had to overhaul seemed endless, and he doubted he would make it home in time for lunch… At least Ginny wouldn't get all mad. After all, she was an Auror too, she knew of the job's requirements…

But he had promised Ron he would visit…

He lifted his gaze from the hazy folder on his desk when he heard the sound of someone knocking on his door, and, relieved he would get to talk to someone instead of reading and writing unceasing, he shifted in his seat and straightened his glasses.

"Come in," he said as professionally as he could and entwined his fingers on the desk. Hell, professionalism was not something he particularly excelled at.

His features broke into a smile when the door opened and he was met with the sight of a fiery red stream of hair. Ginny sauntered across the room, her scarlet Auror robes billowing behind her as she sat herself on the desk and crossed her legs in a rather care-free manner. Harry briefly wondered what the Head Auror would say if he saw them like that, but then, everyone got accustomed to couples rather quickly here.

"Morning," she greeted airily, a broad smile across her pretty face.

Harry smiled. "We have said good morning already thrice this day," he said playfully, more than glad he had found such an enjoyable way to distract himself from the paperwork.

Ginny pouted, feigning hurt. "Oh, so you do not like saying good morning to your wife any more? Oh, I might have become one of those boring housewives and lost my touch…" she let her voice trail off and laughed as Harry rolled his eyes.

"Really, love, I don't think you'll ever become boring. In sixty years from now you'll be sitting on the couch, surrounded by little squealing grandkids and still you'll be just as amazing as you have always been."

Ginny laughed again, and pushed a red strand from her eyes. "Wow there, Mister Potter, don't you think you're rushing things up a bit? We don't even have kids yet."

Harry sighed and leaned forward, resting his hands on the wooden desk. He had been telling Ginny about having a baby for months now, but his wife didn't seem too willing to become a mother yet.

"Yes, but why not? I know we could become fantastic parents…"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Yes, we could, but not yet," she said, and cocked her head to one side. "Harry, we've talked about this countless times before… I just don't want to rush things up. I'm twenty one, I want to live my life before I have to change diapers and wake up every two hours at night."

Harry smiled faintly. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he said, and attempted to change the subject. "So what are you so happy about? You came here with that huge smile on your face…"

Much to his relief, Ginny's face lit up again. "Oh, yes, I wanted to tell you," she started, shifting on the desk. "Dean handed me a report today that says Ron's doing great with his training. In fact, he could be dressed in red before winter!"

Harry's smile only widened. "Really? That's great! He would be an amazing addition to the Auror department… And it's always been his dream… It's great that he's doing well."

Ginny smirked. "Sure… but 'great' for him could mean that he managed to cast a proper spell without setting the entire building on fire."

"Oh, come on now, it was an accident! You'll never let him forget that, will you?"

Ginny pretended to be thinking. "No," she said finally, grinning. "Not likely."

Harry took a long breath and crossed his arms together, gazing at her with fake rigor. "Now is that a way to treat your brother?"

She merely battered her eyelashes all innocently and gave him her sweetest smile. "Of course it is. I only show him how much I love him, dear husband."

The two of them could maintain their postures for only so long before both burst into erratic laughter. These were the moments Harry loved the most about his marriage to Ginny –when they both shared blissful insouciant moments, laughing and caring only about each other in the world.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" he asked after a few seconds, and she smiled.

"Yes, dear, you keep saying it... Only ten times every day."

They were interrupted by the sharp sound of the door being pushed open and footfalls on the plush thick carpet. Both turned their heads to face the intruder, and Harry barely kept himself from chuckling when he saw Ginny's face twitch as she spotted his secretary in the center of the room, with yet another dossier at hand.

Lorelei Clarks was a tall woman, no older than Harry, with a little too frizzy hair and a little too pointed nose. She was not a beauty, but out of all the female employees in the Ministry, she was the one with perhaps the most admirers. It was not because of her appearance (which was rather average, to be honest) but the whole energy around her –she always appeared mirthful and full of life, and it _was_ difficult not to notice her. Admittedly, Harry did not quite remember her from their school years. According to Ginny, she'd been a student in Hufflepuff, in his wife's year, and had always been a rather detached wallflower. If that was the case, it was remarkable how she had grown into such a confident woman.

And of course Harry knew Ginny didn't quite like her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Potter," Lorelei greeted cheerfully, and Ginny merely gave her a curt nod as the woman turned her attention back to Harry. "Mr. Potter, another file about the killer from Paris. The French Ministry suspects he is hiding somewhere in the British countryside, and they requested that we send out men to look for him."

Harry nodded. "Alright Lorelei, leave the dossier on my desk, I'll arrange that later."

After the secretary left, Harry turned to his wife, but before he could say anything, the door burst open yet again and Lorelei stormed in, making Ginny huff with annoyance.

"Has no one taught you you must knock before you enter?" she demanded sharply, and Harry cast her a warning look, which he was sure she would just ignore.

Lorelei shook her head apologetically, but she seemed too hurried to spare Ginny any actual words. "Mr. Potter, your immediate attendance to Azkaban prison is requested. I was notified just now, I'm sorry I didn't-"

"Azkaban?" Harry cut her off, casting Ginny a weary glance. "Why would they want me in Azkaban?"

"I do not know, Mr. Potter, but I think it's about some prisoner. You have to go now, though, they were very stern when they said-"

"It is alright, Lorelei, do not panic," he said firmly and stood up, pushing his chair back and straightening his long scarlet Auror robes. "Please inform Mr. Laurent and the rest of the guards I will be there in any minute." He turned to Ginny, who was now standing as well, a wary look across her face. "Love, go back to your work, I suppose I'll be back soon."

Ginny only frowned. "I'll come with you," she declared, her tone final, but Harry knew the Azkaban Guard Shifts would not appreciate it if he brought along someone whose presence they had not requested.

"No, it's not necessary," he said as he picked a handful of Floo Powder from a small canister on his desk and walked across the room and towards the impressively large fireplace. "Please Ginn, I told you I won't be late."

"You don't know that," Ginny muttered, but thankfully made no move to stop him.

"Azkaban Prison," Harry called out clearly and loudly, dropping the powder from his hand and watching as emerald flames popped wildly all around him and he was suddenly thrown into a black abyss, just for a split second before he reappeared inside of another fireplace, considerably smaller than the one in his office.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, punctual as ever," a rough voice greeted him as he stepped out of the fireplace and shoved grey powder off his coated shoulders.

"Mr. Laurent," he said simply, shaking the older man's hand, green eyes wandering around the narrow, dimly lit room.

The office of the Head of Azkaban Guard Shifts was not as large as the spaces back at the Ministry of Magic, and the atmosphere in it was cool and unwelcoming, like there was a constant aura of death and cold creeping at its corners. _Very fitting for an office in Azkaban_, Harry thought. He could smell salt, but that was hardly a surprise, as the dreaded looming building was surrounded by the merciless sea, which was yet another measure taken to ensure no prisoners would ever get the chance to escape. Harry knew the persons who had managed to break out from Azkaban without outer help were less than five, and his godfather had been one of them. Sometimes, he felt curiously proud while thinking of how Sirius had done that.

"Mr. Potter, we are terribly sorry to interrupt… whatever you were doing, but your presence is needed here," Laurent said, his tone cool and detached. Harry had never seen the certain man smile, or even bear an expression other than the grim and icy cold exterior of a person who is merely doing his job –but, after all, it was only natural given what his profession was. Harry was certain he himself wouldn't be all too mirthful if he had to spend every day in an oppressive place such as this, among all the convicted prisoners and their screams, begs and threats.

"Of course," Harry nodded and followed as Laurent led him out of the office and down a dark and dusty corridor that surely had seen better days. "And, what is the reason for-"

"A prisoner," Laurent said tersely, apparently not in the mood for any additional questions. Harry increased his pace in order to keep up with Laurent who was walking with long strides, and decided to remain silent until they reached the cell of the prisoner he had come here for. Admittedly, he wasn't at all merry to be here, but it was part of his job as an Auror, and of course he could not deny his indebtednesses.

A great load of things had changed over the past few years where Azkaban was concerned. Soon after Kingsley Shacklebolt committed himself as temporary Minister of Magic, all Dementors were quickly removed from Azkaban and were replaced by Ministry officials who would serve as guards for the prisoners. Nutrition had become more important, and prisoners of lower crimes and shorter forfeitures were allowed to wash and go out in secluded areas in some occasions. The sure thing was Azkaban was no longer the Hell it used to be, but it was still a vile and dreadful place no one wished to end up in.

Laurent and Harry continued to walk in silence and, after climbing up creaking stairs and whiled through endless corridors, reached one of the highest levels of the building, were the prisoners of more severe crimes were held lifelong. The air was thicker up here, and it smelt of putrescence and illness, and there was something else Harry Potter had become more than aware of over the years; death.

Three single guards were hovering in the long dark corridor, all of them expressionless and detached their faces hollow and stern. Harry surely did not want to be in their place. He noticed that the guards up here were a lot less alarmed than the ones in the lower stories, and that puzzled him slightly. Shouldn't the prisoners of higher crimes need more strict observation?

But then, it hit him. If Harry were a prisoner up here, he wouldn't try to escape. He wouldn't _want_ to try. Whoever ended up here was dead, at least his soul and spirit was, they abandoned any hopes and dreams of freedom and accepted their merciless fate.

Harry did not even want to imagine how it must have been here with the Dementors present.

Laurent greeted the three Guards with a curt nod as he passed by them and Harry did the same, not exactly expecting to receive a very warm welcome. Finally, the two men stopped outside a cell with no lights, a horrible stench coming from inside. Harry wrinkled his nose but tried not to show his discomfort as the Head Guard took out a small cluster of keys and started looking for the right one. "Lestrange," he said simply, and Harry's stomach gave a sickened leap. He remembered Bellatrix Lestrange, the deranged and dangerous witch who had escaped Azkaban with so many other Death Eaters, the woman that was so fiercely loyal to Voldemort, the one who had killed Sirius, tortured Hermione… and was finally, _finally_ killed by Molly.

"Lestrange?" his voice was small, slightly out of breath at the memories of not so many years ago now fresh in his mind.

"Yes, Rodolphus. He's dying, you see," Laurent explained without a hint of emotion as he found the correct key and held it out.

_Bellatrix's husband. I had almost forgotten he existed_. "Dying?"

"Yes, dying. Not surprising –he's spent almost half his life crazy and deranged in here," the man said, and he could have been talking about the weather instead of a dying man.

"And why am I here?"

"Lestrange knows he's going to die, he hasn't much time left. He may be a convict, but he is allowed one last request."

"A last request, I see. And what do _I_ have to do with it?" Harry asked bewilderment evident in his voice and features.

"You see, Lestrange said he wants to speak to Harry Potter," Laurent explained and shoved the key into the keyhole, unlocking the heavy metal door and pushing it open. "He's inside. He won't hurt you, I don't think he can, but have your wand ready at hand, just in case."

Harry took a wary look around before hesitantly stepping inside the dingy cell, clutching his wand in his hand. "Rodolphus Lestrange?" he called out and the surname Lestrange left him with a bitter taste on his tongue.

"Harry Potter…"

He turned abruptly at the sound of the weakened, small voice, and was met with the body of a man that could have been lifeless lying on a narrow cot at the farthest corner of the cell. Long mousy hair covered his skull-like face, his features sucked and drawn out, eyes hollowed, looking without watching. "Harry Potter?" he said again, this time his voice only slightly louder.

Despite himself, Harry felt pity for the man. He had learned that the Lestranges were once a large and respectable family, wealthy and high in society. He had no doubt Rodolphus Lestrange must have been very handsome and an imposing figure once, but now he looked no better than a lifeless corpse. He had done terrible things, though, so he supposed Lestrange deserved what he got.

"Rodolphus Lestrange," Harry repeated, this time more firmly, walking further into the room and standing above the curled man. "I was told you wanted to see me."

The man nodded with what strength he had left and lifted his lifeless eyes to Harry's. "Potter… I'm dying. You know."

Harry nodded curtly. "Yes." He was surprised the man did not threaten him -after defeating their Lord for the second time and sending all the Death Eaters in Azkaban, Harry knew all the enemies he had only grew less fonder of him.

"I… have one request," the man got straight to the point, choosing not to waste precious energy in pointless rambling. "I want you to go… and find something. I want to be buried with it."

Harry's face twitched. Talking with someone (whoever that was) about the item they wanted to be buried with was not exactly pleasant. _Such macabre things... But I've seen and heard worse_. "This is your last request? If it is, I will bring the item to you."

"Thank you," Lestrange said weakly. "A broach… A silver broach… With emeralds. It's in my house… _Our_ house, it was _our_ house… Yes, the old one, our old house."

"Your house," Harry nodded. "The Lestrange Manor, I guess?"

"Yes, yes," Lestrange croaked. Harry tried to imagine him in his formal robes, in the ballroom of his grand Manor, a glass of the most expensive wine at hand. It was very difficult to do so. "Our house. It was… it was hers, the broach… I gave it to her, I want to be buried with it… please."

"Whose?"

"_Bella's_… My Bella's, it was my Bella's, the broach… _please_ bring it… And bury me with it. With her broach."

Harry had to go out. He needed to get some clean air, _now_. "Alright," he said, struggling to maintain an even tone. "I will bring you Bellatrix's broach."


	2. Stay up and straight ahead

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'_If you need me, or you just wanna bleed me, you'd better stick your dagger in someone else so I can leave, set me free_…' ~ Jimi Hendrix, "Freedom"

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It was admittedly difficult for Harry to picture the moribund dingy man he had met in Azkaban prison being the landlord of a grand Manor such as this. The edifice was olden and derelict, but it was obvious even to the most ignorant visitor that it had bright days and grandeurs.

The Manor stood tall in the centre of a large croft where the once neat hedges had now become wild chaparrals and ragweed sprung up across the court. Scattered cypresses and poplars spread around the realty, swaying in the light breeze.

Harry thought he must be the first human to step foot here after the Battle of Hogwarts –why would anyone want to come here after all? He started walking towards the rusty metallic gates, the fallen leaves crunching under his carefully polished work shoes –_autumn is already here_, he thought briefly.

He paused only for a moment once he reached the tall gates to observe the elaborate carvings that presumably represented two large griffins, but it was virtually impossible to tell after so many years of neglect.

He didn't even have to use magic to enter the realty –after the dissociating of the last Lestrange from the premises, all magical wards had been removed and anyone could walk inside the house without facing any trouble.

Harry walked swiftly down the winding stony lane that led directly to the front door of the house, sidestepping the enormous ragweed and wild flowers that smothered the footpath.

He did not face any difficulties while opening the creaking double doors and stepping inside the manor. Harry was overwhelmed by the fetidness of must and dereliction and instantly started coughing as his nostrils filled with unhealthy wafts of dust. It was pitch dark inside, and he had to illuminate his wand in order to be able to see where he was going –he did not want to step on anything other than floorboards or stumble upon a table or armchair.

What an idiot he had been, leaving Lestrange's cell before even asking him where the hell the broach was! How on earth was he supposed to find such a small and petty object in this huge labyrinthine edifice? He knew it wasn't going to be an easy job, and the spider webs, rotting furniture and absence of light were not helping at all.

Trying not to panic, Harry straightened his back and took a careful look around, trying to position himself within the house. He soon realized he was in a large room with once shiny white marble floors and ornate but now blackened tapestries covering the walls. He noted two cracked pillars at each side of a huge archway that presumably led to another spacious room, perhaps a parlour or dais, and a large marble staircase between two delicate china vases that must have contained colourful flowers once.

He reasoned that the broach must be kept in some sort of bedroom or boudoir, and the most likely concept was for such rooms to be located in the upper stories of the building.

With that in mind, Harry made his way up the staircase, ignoring a fat grey rat that scurried across the marble stile and the enormous cobwebs spreading across the high vaulted ceiling above him.

He finally made it to the second floor and started walking down the lobby, forcing himself to ignore the figures that eyed him warily through their dusty portraits. He could not push the thoughts of Bellatrix Lestrange and how she had inhabited this very house once away from his mind, and the feeling of the eyes of the portraits on him was quite disturbing.

Unable to resist any longer, he lifted his gaze to one of the paintings and saw a pair of blue eyes that stared at him questioningly through a thick layer of dust that must have taken a great deal of time to gather there. A Lestrange, Harry reasoned, deciding not to speak to the portrait and simply keep walking.

The sooner he found the broach and left, the better.

"Who are you?" a rough voice snapped, cutting through the comfortable silence and making Harry jump, instantly turning around and pointing his wand at the voice's direction. He rolled his eyes when he realized it was merely the portrait that had talked, and lowered his wand.

"Who are _you_?" he asked warily, not willing to reveal his identity to a _painting_, especially one that decorated the walls of the _Lestrange_ house.

The blue-eyed man in the portrait huffed with annoyance apparently not appreciating the younger man's attitude towards him. "I will have you know, young man, that I am Darius Lestrange the Second, prominent member of the noble Lestrange family, and you are trespassing the property of my ancestors," he said in a cold arrogant voice that reminded Harry of Draco Malfoy's father.

Darius Lestrange… He had never heard the name before, but judging from the surname, he must have been some ancestor of Rodolphus Lestrange… A father or grandfather perhaps?

"I asked you a question, impertinent young man," Darius Lestrange drawled, his blue eyes narrowing into slits. "Who are you and what is the reason you are in our house?"

Harry contemplated revealing his identity. It wouldn't hurt him –the man was merely a painting on a wall, and Harry had every right to be here. Perhaps Darius Lestrange could even help him find the broach…

"My name is Harry, sir, Harry Potter." He said as politely as he could, knowing that he would have no luck with a man as snobby as Lestrange if he was not courteous. "Glad to meet you… I apologise for… coming uninvited." It was weird apologizing to a _portrait_.

Darius frowned. "Potter? I know their family, blood traitors they are, but I've never heard of a Harry. What are you doing here, young man?"

"I… I came on behalf of Lestrange… Rodolphus Lestrange. Do you know him sir?"

The man's eyes widened. "My son sent a Potter in our noble house instead of coming by himself?"

"He is your son sir? Rodolphus?"

Darius nodded, bewildered. "Yes, my eldest," he murmured. "Why would he ever send a _Potter_ in our house?"

Harry took a long breath, deciding not to pay any attention to the way Lestrange pronounced "Potter". The man, although dead, could be proven useful, and he did not intend to spend his entire day searching for Bellatrix Lestrange's broach in this isolated house. "Rodolphus Lestrange sent me to fetch an object for him," he said simply, making up his mind not to mention Rodolphus was dying and had begged him to find his wife's broach as his last wish. If he told Darius the entire truth, the man would either accuse him of lying or refuse to help him.

"Ah, I see," the man nodded, seemingly satisfied by Harry's answer. "And do tell me, young man, what is the object you wish to take back to him?"

"It is a broach, Mr. Lestrange," Harry said, wondering (for the fifth time that day) why on earth he had agreed to do that. "A silver broach… with emeralds. It belonged –_belongs_," he corrected himself, wanting the man to think both the Lestranges were alive and healthy, "to your son's wife, Bellatrix."

"Ah, Bellatrix," Darius said, his voice void of emotion. "She was a good match for my son, although I am certain she never truly cared for him… A little spitfire, she is, not the proper wife we were hoping for… But Rodolphus likes her."

"Of course," Harry nodded, not bothering to care about Darius' words. "Mr. Lestrange, do you know where Bellatrix keeps her jewellery?"

The blue-eyed man frowned. "In her boudoir, of course. Where else?"

"Of course, Mr. Lestrange, but could you please tell me _where_ the boudoir is?" Harry pressed, his patience wearing thin. He certainly did not want to spend half his day blindly looking all over the house for Bellatrix's boudoir –and, to be honest, the mere thought of the deranged woman sitting in her boudoir and doing her hair and make-up was just laughable. But he knew she and her now imprisoned husband used to live here before the first War, before Azkaban… Then it made sense… In a way.

"Next to the Master bedroom," the man in the portrait said tersely, and Harry gritted his teeth –obviously there was no way to extract any more information from the snobby Mr. Lestrange.

"Thank you," he muttered trying to gain control of his temper and receded into the darkness, walking further down the dusty corridor. The sound of his footfalls was drowned by the carpet beneath his feet, a carpet that must have been a luxurious Persian red once.

He passed by many doors without bothering to open them, but stopped abruptly as he noticed one of them was open. Slowly and carefully he walked inside the empty room behind the creaking oak door. A small rat lifted its yellowish eyes from whatever he was consuming and eyed Harry, its muzzle twitching, and quickly scurried across the room and disappeared under a protuberant floorboard.

It didn't take Harry long to realize he was in a bedroom, and immediately he recognized it as the chamber of the couple. Admittedly, it was beautiful, although dingy and neglected; it was rather spacious with heavy worn furniture and large double windows, covered with onerous but bleached plush curtains. Under a palatial crown moulding was a gigantic four poster bed that must have once been extremely comfortable, but now the mattress was torn and the bedstead looked about to collapse.

Harry noted with amazement that the ceiling of the room was a quaint, large colourful fresco with wonderful representations of birds, plants and animals, a mosaic that looked as if created just days ago –the colours were so vivid it was virtually impossible to think nobody had looked after the paintings for nearly two decades.

He saw a black panther and a white lion, a delicate fleur-de-lis and ruby red roses, an imposing dark hawk with its wings spread wide and soft pink carnations. Harry hovered, his mind unable to process the image above him. He had always viewed the Lestrange couple as deranged psychopaths –and they _were_, but he had never thought their house could be so tastefully decorated. He reminded himself that the Lestranges were an old prestigious family; it was only natural that their Manor would be like that… Yet it still seemed wrong, to think that _Bellatrix Lestrange_ slept here, in such a beautiful and delicate bedroom.

He gazed at the bed, and tried to conjure with the help of his imagination the image of a young Bellatrix Lestrange, like the one he had seen in that picture so many years ago in Grimmauld Place, lying there with her eyes shut, not looking distraught and perilous but peaceful and human.

It was difficult.

He had known Bellatrix Lestrange as a madwoman, deranged and wrong in all ways, blindly devoted to the darkest and most dangerous wizard to ever exist. It wasn't exactly easy to picture such a person as an innocent young human –although Harry was quite sure Bellatrix had never been truly innocent.

He shook his head, pushing such thoughts away from his mind. He had not come here to wonder about the past of a murderer, he had arrived at this house with a very straightforward and simple task –to find the broach, and _leave_.

Darius Lestrange had said Bellatrix used to keep her jewellery in her boudoir, next to the Master Bedroom… But he was in the Master bedroom, yet he had seen no special lady room while walking down the sombre hall. Well, perhaps Lestrange was wrong –he had died decades ago, after all, he didn't even know his daughter-in-law was a goner.

Harry's eyes wandered around the dusk room, searching for anything that could resemble silver and emeralds, but found nothing. He contemplated any piece of adornment must be secured in some sort of wardrobe or drawer, so he approached the sizable oak cloakroom and, after putting his wand in his pocket first, opened the doors with the engraved representations wide open.

There was only a huge mess within.

Shabby black and dark green materials hanging from tottering hangers, unkempt linen and scattered fabrics filled the wardrobe, and Harry's heart sank at the sight.

He did _not_ want to search through Bellatrix Lestrange's clothes.

He took a deep breath and kneeled down on the washed-out carpet, stilled his wand on a small knob on a drawer for illumination, bent inside the wardrobe, and started pushing fabrics aside and taking clothes out, dropping them carelessly onto the floor.

Harry was not surprised to find many pairs of everyday black robes, loose and made of simple cotton, as well as a pair of Death Eater robes which he quickly threw away, unable to bear the sight of them. He was slightly taken aback to hold a pair of formal robes made of the finest dark green velvet and a long midnight blue gown with lacy sleeves. He felt rather uncomfortable picking up a floor-length crimson dress with a _very_ plunging neckline and a set of _very_ tight fitting woollen cloaks, as well as a few cream-colored corsets.

But the worst part came when he had thrown every single piece of clothing out of the wardrobe, and reached the back where a large pile of undergarments lay. It seemed impossible that anyone could keep their bijous under a bunch of underwear, but with the certain woman, Harry could never be sure. He clenched his teeth as he stretched his hand and picked a pair of black lacy underwear which he quickly dropped to the floor, feeling his cheeks flaming. He thought it was laughable, that he felt so inconvenient while looking through clothes of a dead person, but somewhere in the back of his mind he kept thinking of what Ginny would say were she to find him in this position.

The whole situation only became even more uncomfortable when Harry's fingers brushed against a red coloured bra and matching knickers, and then yet another corset, only this time black. He huffed with annoyance, and was about to give up and leave, when he felt something against his hand that did not resemble clothing.

It was solid, like rough… leather? And… _paper_?

Now with his curiosity ablaze, he tossed the undergarments aside without pausing to feel embarrassed, and when finally the wardrobe was empty of all clothing, his gaze fell on the last thing inside the closet.

It was a book –no, a notebook, clad with dark leather, and resembled a… _diary_? Tentatively, Harry took the writing book in his hand and pulled it out, holding it under the wandlight, carefully examining it. Yes, it could be a diary, but the notion of the notorious Bellatrix Lestrange keeping a diary seemed ridiculous.

_Tom Riddle kept a diary as well_, a small voice whispered in his head, and Harry shook his head abruptly. This could only be a warning –he still remembered the troubles Riddle's diary had caused, even after all these years, and he did not intend to put himself and others in danger yet again because of a _notebook_. But the notebook didn't seem… evil. Or dangerous.

Riddle's diary didn't appear to be evil either, the voice in his head insisted, and Harry knew he should listen to it, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him already. Hesitantly, as if he was about to attempt to pet a rabid dog, Harry opened the diary to the first page, and saw text was covering half the folio.

His eyes fell on the date at the beginning of the page.

_Wednesday, July 19th_

No year. He had no idea who might be the one who had written in the diary, but he strongly suspected it was Bellatrix herself… He did not want to read something written by the woman who had killed Sirius, Tonks, and so many others…

Or did he?

Unable to fight back against his nosiness, he started reading, and then he couldn't bring himself to stop.

_Wednesday, July 19th_

_It's been three years, three whole years and I haven't written anything. Of course, there is a certain person to blame for that –there is always a person to blame, for any crime, any misbehaviour, any transgression. I know that, because I've played the role of the accused countless times in the past._

_This is the first page of this notebook. But it's definitely not the first page of my life. For seven years now, I've been writing in a diary –the same diary, I had never changed it. Nobody knew, of course –if they did, they'd tear it apart and throw it into the fireplace, after of course reading everything I'd written inside and deliver me a fitting punishment for such misbehaviour._

_Such unseemly behavior for the eldest Black daughter, Mother would say. Oh, how can Bellatrix Black act like a common teenage school girl and not the pureblood aristocracy she ought to be? Oh how can she be human and not a soulless doll only to be looked at?_

_Well they found it, eventually. The diary, they found it, and they took it away from me –Andromeda is the one to blame for that. I don't know if I will ever truly forgive her for that. She was the one who told them, she was the one who saw what I'd written in the diary about them, and she told them._

_Now I know how foolish of me it'd been not to put protective charms on the notebook. Father had been considerably calm, Mother had been furious, and the diary was up in flames in the hearth of the damned drawing room._

_I swore to hate them that day. My parents, my sister, my entire insane family, but I never managed to keep my oath, not even after everything. I forgave them, I always forgave them and I always somehow accepted that yes, it was my fault._

_It was just a stupid diary, Cissa had said. You can start writing a new one._

_For her, and for them, it was just a stupid notebook. But for me it was something more –oh, I know how damn cliché this sounds, but it's the truth, the truth I'm able to write only in a diary. Cissa and I are closer than anyone else in the bloody family, yet I can't tell her everything, I won't always tell her the truth. I'm a person, not a thing, and every person deserves to speak the truth and their opinions, to express their feelings openly. I know I don't have that right in my house, at least not yet, not as long as I am under my parents' guardianship. But I do have the right to express myself somehow, and, at the age of nine, writing in a diary was the only way I was able to come up with._

_And now I'm sixteen. Cissa says I'm all grown up now, and oh she's so jealous of me and oh she wishes she could grow up faster. Andromeda says I'm still a schoolgirl –and they're both younger than me. Mother says I should already be betrothed to someone and I'll end up all alone and a laughing stock, and Father doesn't seem to care, as always. Of course he never shows it, no, he's too careful, but even after so many years, it is obvious that we are nothing but a horrible disappointment to him, because we're not the sons he had wished for._

_New diary. Alas, I don't think I'll have any more luck with it than with the last one, but it's worth the try –or so I hope. I know most girls write in diaries, but Mother always sits me on the plush armchair and reminds me of how I'm not most girls, how I'm superior to them, me and my sisters. I believe her. I know the pure blood running through my veins is superior to the muggle contaminated blood of the Mudblood interbreeds, but sometimes it seems to me that, absurdly, they have more rights than I do. They can go out and run and cry out enraptured and relish their freedom, and they can write in diaries, they can do anything they want._

_And I, the superior one, according to Mother, cannot._

_I read a book about a princess once, and there was a phrase in the first chapter I still remember –'trapped in a golden cage', it said. Sometimes, that is exactly how I feel. Trapped in my golden cage, my luxurious prison, blessed with Gringotts vaults filled with riches, dresses made of the finest silk and lace, expensive jewelry and house elves catering to my every need._

_Such treacherous thoughts I make, but sometimes I imagine how it would be like if I were a Muggle born. It disgusts me, brings the foulest taste to my mouth, but at the same time, it's as sweet as the lemon pies Regulus is so fond of. Because I'd be contaminated but free, and it seems better than being pure but also a prisoner behind golden bars._

_No. No, I shouldn't be thinking like that –I look back at what I've just written and I want to shed the page, but I won't. My every thought will be recorded in here, it's my only place of freedom and the only place where I can speak openly, unafraid._

_They say if you wish, you shall receive. I have always wished, and I have always received things I never asked for, but perhaps I can make it work. I will wish –is there any other way to try get what I want? No, for now, at least, there isn't. I'll be an adult soon, there is just one year left, but, until then, I cannot rule my life and I can only wish._

_Every time I write, I will wish –each time for something different. There are so many things I want to wish for, but now one of them is taking over anything else, and I want it, want it more than anything else._

_I wish to find freedom. I wish to be freed from my golden cage._

X


	3. Women's tears and other weapons

X

'_She's a woman, you know what I mean, you better listen, listen to me, she's gonna set you free_…' ~Wolfmother, "Woman"

X

Harry awoke with a start, disoriented, his cotton shirt drenched in sweat and sticking uncomfortably on his torso. His green eyes unbolted, and the only thing they descried was the white ceiling above, which looked a murky shade of grey in the darkness of the bedroom.

He caught he was panting and his head abruptly slumped back on the pillow as he tried to compose his respiration, shutting his eyes again as he did so. _One, two, inhale, exhale, three, four_… He counted up to twenty and when he finally opened his eyes afresh, he found that his heartbeat had slowed down to a normal level.

_That was definitely a nightmare he had just had_. Or at least, a very, very unpleasant dream.

"Harry?" Ginny's voice, rough with sleep, resonated from beside him and he veered on his side to see his wife's hazel eyes half-open, looking warily at him. "Is everything alright?"

Harry forced a small –and what he hoped was reassuring– smile. "Of course, Ginn," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."

Ginny's eyes narrowed and she drew herself up, her elbows abutting on her chock full pillow. "Harry are you sure? You don't look very well," she said worriedly.

He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "Ginn, I'm fine, I just woke up and figured I need a glass of water…" She didn't look particularly convinced. "Look, love, go back to sleep and I'll be back in bed in no time, okay?"

She nodded, although hesitantly, and sank back down on the soft mattress. "Are you _sure_ you're alright?" she asked again.

Harry rolled his eyes, hoping she would take it as an attempt on humor. "Love, go back to sleep. I'll just go and drink some water; I'm not going to meet my mistress."

To his great relief she chuckled sleepily and her eyelids fell shut, her head nuzzling against the pillow. "Okay," she murmured and within seconds her breathing had evened out, her chest rising and falling rhythmically.

Careful not to wake her up again, Harry slid out of the double bed and slipped his feet in a pair of slippers, cursing under his breath as the floorboards creaked under his weight. _They need changing_. He didn't bother to change his shirt –after all, it had already half-become dry. His eyes rummaged around the bedroom for some sort of jerkin. Finally he settled for a light woolen jacket which he drapped carelessly over his shoulders and then quickly walked down the stairs and straight into the kitchen. _They had a big house. It would be so much better if there were kids to fill it_.

He was surprised when he had to supress a yawn -he did not feel wearied at all. Rubbing sleep off his eyes Harry swiftly switched on the kitchen lights and went straight to grab the bottle of ice-cold water. He gulped the liquid in three markedly large mouthfuls and quick after he sank down on one of the chairs, fixing his gaze on the wallpapered wall across.

Harry was used to nightmares. At some point he had begun to feel wary and uneasy every time he actually managed to have a good night's sleep without dreaming of evil wizards and people dying or getting tortured, of pain and weakness and people that were long goners. But _this__ -_this was different, _much_, much different, and _worse_, even, because it wasn't exactly a nightmare.

It was certainly something Harry had never though he'd ever see in his sleep.

For sure, Bellatrix Lestrange was not one of Harry's favorite people in the world. He was more than glad she was dead –the woman had been the cause of so many problems for Harry, his friends and the Order, and of course the Ministry and so many innocent citizens, and her loss were definitely not a thing worth mourning. Harry was _happy_ she was gone, and happy he would never have to think of her again.

Yet he had seen her in his dream.

However he had not dreamed of the deranged witch with the crazy hollowed eyes and the tattered hair, and the infamous dangerous smirk tugging at the corners of her thin lips. No, the figure in his dream had been much, much different, but Harry _knew _it was Bellatrix. At first, it was a girl. A quite small girl at that, with shiny black ringlets fanning around a pale face that was stooped over a small notebook. The notebook was open on the girl's lap and a quill was running swiftly across the page, leaving hastily drawn letters behind.

Then the image had changed. It had given way to a different setting -it had been a living room, but not like the one in Harry's house, or the one at the Burrow, or in Private Drive, or even Grimmauld Place. The chamber-like room resembled more the drawing room of the Mafloy Manor, the dreaded house Harry and his two best friends had been dragged into by Snatchers about five years ago. A gigantic hearth was roaring somewhere in the distance, in an undefined spot, and in the very middle of the room was nothing but an armchair.

A girl was sitting on the armchair, with her legs folded carefully beneath her, dressed in an ornate nightgown. She was doing nothing in particular -her violet eyes were focused out of the living room's window, and she looked deep in thought, her eyes narrowed and a small frown creasing her forehead.

Harry knew it was Bellatrix. He was sure she was. He had never seen young Bellatrix Lestrange before -well, he _had_, in that old picture in Kreacher's cupboard all those years ago, but still, it had not been very helpful when Harry had tried to conjure the image of a young Bellatrix, not yet Lestrange, but Black.

Sighing, Harry stood up and walked over to a small drawer, where he had put the diary he had picked up from the Lestrange Manor. Ginny did not know it was there -he was sure she'd be upset if she knew where Harry had gone and what he'd collected from there- so the diary's existence was not acquainted to anyone but Harry.

Perhaps picking it up had not been a very good idea after all. Hell, Harry had had a really nasty experience with a certain diary in the past, and he was not willing to go through the same again. But something, some invisible, imperceptible force, had impelled him to open the notebook and read it. And once he'd started, he had not been able to stop.

Harry had never put much thought into Bellatrix Lestrange's character and personality. To him -and to the rest of the world, he supposed- she was the crazy, blindly devoted follower of the Dark Lord. A dangerous, insane witch who had done unspeakable things in the name of her Master. A cruel, sadistic woman who had not hesitated to kill and torture people to insanity.

Really, in Harry's mind, there had never been anything more to her than that. He had never bothered to find out about her incentives, her motives, the reasons behind her joining Voldemort or her life as a girl, a student. In all truth, he had never really _wanted _to. Bellatrix Lestrange was a person he could happily erase from his mind if given the chance, but now she had abruptly been thrown back in his life, without any warning.

Of course, he could just throw the diary away. He could burn it, or just dump it in some dark alleway, and he could forget about it. The thought had of course crossed his mind, but, somehow, he had not been able to do that. No, he had kept Bellatrix's diary.

And he had read further on.

Not much. Just the next two pages.

He inhaled deeply and pulled the diary from the drawer -which was a relatively safe place, since Ginny had always _hated _that piece of furniture and did not even bother to dust it- then went back to his chair and opened it on the table. He did not want to read on. It wouldn't be right.

But during the past couple of days, he had found himself being irrationally curious. He had figured out he _wanted _to know more of the dangerous Bellatrix Lestrange, he wanted to know how she became what she was. Because, judging from the content of her diary, she was not deranged since birth. After all, no one can be insane and evil as a child, can they? Even Tom Riddle, he was not _pure evil _as a kid.

Perhaps he would be able to stpo reading after a while. It was Bellatrix's diary after all, it would certainly not be all happy thoughts and mirthful writings. Yes, he would, in the end, find his sences and stop reading. But for now, he wouldn't.

So he opened the diary on the second page, and he re-read the same folio he had been reading for the past couple of days.

X

_Saturday, July 22nd_

_8.07 am_

_I have been taught I must not cry when I feel sad. But I have also been taught I can cry whenever I want to achieve something that is beyond my strength and magical powers._

_Sometimes I wonder, what does our magical nature even mean to Druella? In all honesty, I have caught myself thinking she acts more like a muggle than a witch. She almost never uses magic –not that she ever does anything other than attending tea parties, ordering her house-elves, escorting Cygnus to important gatherings and events and generally the boring, meaningless things she "ought to do" as the important pureblood society wife of an important pureblood society man._

_I don't think she can duel. Well, I don't think she has ever had to defend herself from any threat. Perhaps she doesn't even know what "threat" means. But how could she? Her world is a perfectly safe bubble, the same sterile, languid lifestyle she so desperately struggles to force upon me, and Cissa, and Meda. _

_So Druella has taught me to never cry. At least not when I'm sad. Not when I'm emotional. Because, of course, it is not becoming of a lady such as us to ever display any form of emotion, other than carefully restrained gladness or pathos. _

_But a girl can cry when she wants something. When she wants a man to do something for her, or when she is desperate to avoid something. "Blush, flutter your eyelashes, let a single tear spill down your porcelain cheek and every man will fall on his knees for you", Aunt Walburga had once said while gracefully sipping her tea, during another one of those lady-parties. And when all the guests had departed and I was helping her in the basement, she had merely smirked, and she had told me "No man will bend to your will just with a few tears. Open your legs -or make him think you'll open them- and that's how he'll run after you like a little puppy."_

_I can't decide whether this is sad, hilarious, or just the bitter truth. But it can't be their truth. In Druella's world, and in Walburga's, and in Ophelia Lestrange's and Lizbeth Rosier's, women are only capable of crying and being beautiful and producing heirs. They serve only as decorative. Pretty ornaments of a man's life, useful only in bed._

_But I actually doubt they believe those things. Druella can't actually believe she is only good for making babies and cooking food and wearing fancy dresses. All these are just the ideas of the world she grew up in –and she cannot let me, and Cissa and Meda have another, better, different life._

_I'm not going to write my wish just yet. Cygnus will stay at work up until late, and Druella has been invited to Lizbeth's house. Meda has gone out with Evan and Cissa will just immerse herself in her precious piano lessons… So I'll be stuck here, with Walburga, who's come over to keep an eye on us. There won't be anything better to do than write in here, so I'll certainly write more… Or so I hope._

_(I just noticed I've been referring to my parents as Cygnus and Druella. And maybe that's a good thing, because I don't want to be like Cissa, overly attached to them like a little lost dog. They won't always be here, after all. And when they're gone, I'd better be able to face it without tears and sobs. I'm not entirely sure I love them. I don't think they've decided whether they love me or not either.)_

_11.30 pm_

_I talked to Walburga._

_I asked her. I just couldn't keep it to myself –it was all too much, so I went and asked her, while she was doing the last touch-ups on her embroidery. Cissa was too absorbed in her boring piano songs, so we were alone, and it was the perfect chance to finally find out what the hell is going on in my aunt's mind. About all these things she's told me._

_She laughed. When I asked her if she truly believes women are that useless, if their only purpose is to sit inactive and be pretty, she just cackled and put down her –not very tasteful– needlecraft and made space for me on the couch. "Oh, Bella, dear Bella, sit," she said with a small smile._

_She told me that no. No, a woman is far from otiose. Very, very far from otiose. A woman, she said, is smarter than a man, because she thinks with her brain, not with her money, or her power, or her sexual urges. Without a woman, every man would be no better than a pathetic little toad. But a smart woman, she pretends to be dutiful and kind, concise and meek, so she can give a man the false impression he has control over her._

_I did not believe her. If a woman wants to be strong –if she thinks she is strong, she has to show it, and not let a man lower her to nothing. "You will learn, Bella," she said, "that whatever you do in your life, you must do it twice as good as your husband, or your cousin, or any other man, to be considered half as good." And then she added, "And that's not very hard, you know."_

_But there was also something else. A woman can't stay silent and sedate all the time. She cannot be uneventful forever. A woman must feel the urge to shout, to go out there and stand up for something, __fight__ for something. I know I feel that way. I can't be drossy and waste for ever, I told her, and she just gave me one of those sphinx-like smile of hers –annoying smiles. "Bella," she said, "you don't have to run wild with men and hurl curses and shout down the streets to feel like you're standing up for something."_

_I digress. I've never done anything like that before, but, just the thought of it –it's spine-tingling. That's my wish. My wish for tonight; I wish to feel that, the rush and thrill of running wild, shouting and fighting. The rush and thrill of standing up for something and not backing down. Of being useful, and strong._

X

_Sunday, July 23__rd_

_Cygnus came home five hours later than usual last night –or should I say, this morning. Druella was quite distressed, but of course, she did not show it, or at least she tried not to. And yes, he did have an explanation for this._

_A murder. And a disappearance, which is thought to be an abduction. And the destruction of a muggle bookstore, a muggle coffee-shop and a small pub (what was its name? "The Rabbit"? "The Hare"? "The Badger"? Something like that…) in Diagon Alley._

_Nobody can tell for sure who the culprits are –they don't even have suspects, I think, from what I managed to overhear during Druella's conversation with Cygnus about that very matter. Druella credits whoever it was that did all those things must have been looking for someone, or something. Cissa thinks (I told her after she woke up this morning) that it's just some evil person wanting to cause chaos, and Meda didn't say anything. She doesn't seem very well lately._

_But Cygnus seemed wary… Quite restless, he was. It's like he knows something he doesn't want us to find out about. After lunch, he excused himself from the table and went straight to uncle Alphard's. He said they had some important matters to discuss –Ministry work, it should not be of women's concern. Of course._

_I don't think I'm going to write any more tonight –Druella said tomorrow the Malfoys' will be visiting, and I'll sure need some good night's sleep if I want to be able to put up with Lucius Malfoy and his father for the entire day tomorrow. But I'll write my wish, even though it's quite unimportant… A trivial thing, but it's a little wish._

_I wish to find out who is behind the murder, the abduction and the destructions. And I wish to find out what they did what they did._

X

**Author's Notes**: I am so sorry I did not update quicker, but I have two excuses. First, that dreaded thing called school. Second, the other dreaded thing called "my computer totally _crashed_". And I pretty much lost all my files, and had to re-arrange everything, which took me quite a while.

Anyways! Thank you to all who is reading this! I am terribly sorry I have not answered to some of your reviews -I promise I'll start replying soon, and to those who review without being logged in, if you have any questions, you can post them in your review and I can answer you in my Author's Notes in the next chapter.

So... more interesting stuff to come later on! Right now it's still the beginnings!

Reviews are love!

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